he decided he loved her at the end of the world
by roberre
Summary: "She made him a better person. He didn't know how, but she did. He made her a sadder person, and he wished he could change it." Mister Gold loses his memories at the town line, and Belle insists on loving him.


The woman stood over the gurney, tears streaming down her face. She tried to hold his hand. For a moment, he was too confused to protest, and he let her stroke his palm with her thumb.

"Don't you remember me?" she asked.

"Should I? Do you owe me money?"

She stifled a sob. It could mean either no or yes. "It's me, Belle," she said, as if the name deserved recognition.

He pursed his lips apologetically and shook his head. The motion sent pain through his shoulder. He was bleeding. Apparently, there was a bullet in his shoulder.

"I love you," she said.

Apparently, he'd lost more blood than he thought.

xxxx

She came to visit him the next day, with a small cardboard box filled with his things. A burgundy silk robe, to wear over his unsightly yellow hospital gown, and a pair of slippers. A handful of antique books, a safety razor and a toothbrush. A white and blue porcelain teacup.

She brought his things, and tried to hide her disappointment when he used the teacup as a toothbrush holder, and left without an explanation.

xxxx

The woman, Belle, came back every day for a week. She brought him books, at first, but soon the books came accompanied with little stories. The reason she picked the book. The first time she'd read it. Her favourite character. Those stories led to more stories, about her life and her past… and then about him. And sometimes he recognized himself in the narrative, recognized the quiet, uncompromising, confident air of Mister Gold. But sometimes, when she smiled and bit her lip, and spoke about quiet movie nights and hamburger dates, he felt as though she was speaking about someone else. He felt as though she were inventing a world he didn't live in, because it was impossible for her to love him… and he certainly didn't love her.

When he was released from the hospital, he checked his log books. She didn't owe him any debts, but she came to his shop every day to clean.

xxxx

She wore a Santa hat at Christmas, but he absolutely refused to let her put up any further decoration.

"Don't you like Christmas, Mister Gold?" she asked, polishing a silver tea tray and watching him count the money in the till.

"Just another excuse to pick a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of December," he muttered. And then she laughed. Because she was intelligent, and she'd read 'A Christmas Carol' eight times (she'd told him so, just yesterday). And because she thought his jokes were funny.

She was a rare one, Belle French. If he had paid her, he'd have given her a raise.

xxxx

She served him tea in a broken cup, and expected him not to notice when she slipped bizarre concoctions into his drink.

He did notice, of course. Sometimes the liquid tasted faintly of chalk (and once of chocolate), and she was a terrible liar. When he'd look at her, she'd blush, and on one occasion he'd caught her slipping a glass vial into her purse.

But he always drank it, and he never asked what it was, and it never hurt him.

She helped him collect the rent. She minded the till. She counted the money and never once stole from him. She didn't complain and she didn't ask him for anything. She just kept him company, and expected him to drink his tea. And so he did.

He trusted her.

But, although she occasionally placed a kiss on his cheek before she left for the night, he still did not love her.

xxxx

He discovered that the library closed early on the days she came to help him at the shop. And so, because fair was fair, he made sure he paid her rent, though she never asked for it. He paid her father's too, on occasion. She didn't speak to her father anymore, but he supposed she'd appreciate the thought. She was keen on charity, and helpfulness, and thoughtfulness, and all manner of good intentions. She claimed to love a man who cared for his money and his things. He didn't understand why, but he knew he didn't deserve her.

xxxx

She made him a better person. He didn't know how, but she did.

He made her a sadder person, and he wished he could change it.

She stopped spiking his tea with liquid from vials. She let him drink out of any cup he wanted. She still cleaned his shop and dusted the books and told him stories, but her eyes were often red, and he thought she likely cried more than she smiled.

And so he wiped her eyes with his pocket square, one day, and then he kissed her.

She smiled then. And so did he.

xxxx

He decided he loved her at the end of the world.

But by then it was too late.

He was something of a coward, and he huddled in the back of his shop as vines streaked across the glass of his shop windows, cracking the panes of glass. The earth trembled and antiques clattered to the ground. Books fell off their shelves, and he watched as thousands of dollars of merchandise toppled to the floor.

He didn't care.

He cared about her. He cared that she was safe. He cared that, if they were to die, they would die together, and he would get to kiss her one more time.

She found him at the door of his shop, preparing to brave the trembling, shattering pavement of the streets to find her. She wore a blue coat and held her arms over her chest as if the posture might protect her from the apocalypse.

She carried a book of fairy tales, and told him his name was Rumplestiltskin, and she didn't care of he believed her or not. She told him she loved him.

He didn't believe his name was Rumplestiltskin (because it was Mister Gold), but he believed everything else about her—from her smile to her optimism, from her bright blue eyes to the softness of her hands, from her love of books to her curiosity. He believed she loved him, and he believed he loved her too.

And so he told her so. And then he kissed her.

She still cried, and he still didn't deserve her. But as they held each other and the world stopped trembling, he wiped her tears away and said, "I remember."

* * *

A/N: Based on these prompts from anon: "Timeline scene : Hook missed Belle and shot Rumple. Now wounded man in really bad condition is outside of Storybrook and Belle doesn't know how to help him and still remember. But she finally founds a way." and lumiereandpenumbra: "Prompt: AU at the town line Gold does lose his memories and Belle still gets shot (I don't know where all these angsty ideas are coming from I am usually all about the fluff)" Also, a big thanks to the anon who suggested I put the story up here, and another huge thanks to everyone on tumblr. Your response to this little fic blew me away. I'm really honoured you all liked it so much. THANK YOU. You're all lovely.


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